


This World Was Not Made for You

by Erushi



Series: Gods of the Steppe (an Otayuri fairytale) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 20:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erushi/pseuds/Erushi
Summary: “I told you to stop doing that,” Otabek glared at him reproachfully.Yuri cocked his head. A tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. “But it’s fun to watch you jump like that.”Otabek huffed. “And you call yourself a god,” he griped as he struggled to his feet.“But I am a god,” Yuri replied.---Or: A fairytale AU In which Otabek is a Kazakh warrior who falls in love with the god of the Steppe.This is a sequel toWe Dream in Prophecy(from theLover/Fighter Otayuri zine), but can also be read as a standalone.





	This World Was Not Made for You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Otabek Altin Week](https://otabek-altin-week.tumblr.com/). (I'm a bit late, but it's still Otabek's birthday in California!)
> 
> Also for @peggyshrooms, without whom the [Lover/Fighter Otayuri zine](http://peggyshrooms.tumblr.com/post/163452665326/edit-as-of-31st-july-theres-only-less-than-10) wouldn't have been possible; my fellow YOI travelling titas (you know who you are! <3), and everyone who bought the Lover/Fighter zine. Thank you for your support.

Otabek crouched low beside the rock-face, watching. He could see the campfires up ahead now, and the silhouettes of the guards as they patrolled the perimeter of the camp.   

Quiet. He had to be quiet.

He remained where he was until he was confident that he had memorised the patterns and movements of the guards. Then, he began to edge towards the camp, careful always to hug the curve of the cliff wall, one shadow amongst many.

A pair of guards broke away from the rest of the patrol. Immediately, Otabek darted behind one of the many large boulders that lay scattered across the rock-strewn landscape, still keeping watch from the corner of his eye. The pair was walking towards him. Otabek slid his knife from his booth and curled his fingers around its handle. He held his breath as they approached him, drawing closer and closer yet, until they stopped in front of another boulder barely a few feet away. Time seemed to slow down. Stilled.

One of the guards shook his head. His partner punched him in the shoulder. Both guards turned on their heels and began to walk back towards the camp.

Otabek waited until they had re-joined the rest of the patrol before exhaling shakily. His fingers eased their grip on his knife.

It was time to move.

The ground to his right rose gently. It would give him an even better view of the camp, as much as it would give the camp a better view of him. Still, it was a risk that Otabek was willing to take.

He returned his knife to his boot and crept to the vantage point. There, he eased his bow from where he had strapped it against his back, and strung it methodically. Two arrows from the quiver on his hip. Sight.

The arrows flew true, and as they flew, Otabek knew that they would hit their marks. He had yet to miss a shot, not since he had sought the favour the god of the Steppe. It had been a foolhardy gambit, wagered by a single boy on a desperate quest to avenge his village.

Otabek did not regret the gambit in the slightest.  

At the edge of the barbarian camp, two guards crumpled. Another started to turn, but he fell to the ground before he could complete the motion, as did yet another guard, each with an arrow to the throat. Otabek continued to fire, until the last guard, the guard who turned just a sliver too soon, gave a shout before Otabek’s arrow pierced him.

The guard’s alarm was met with an answering cry. Otabek swore as he ducked back to the relative shelter of the lower ground, where the boulders would keep him from being discovered for just a little while more. He slung his bow on his back again, and drew his short sword.

Subtlety was overrated, anyway.

A red mist had been crowding against the edges of his vision, held back only by sheer force of will. Otabek gave in to it now, allowing it to take over, to overwhelm his senses, as he stepped out from his cover and moved steadily to the camp.

There were more shouts. A few arrows whizzed towards him, missing their mark. Otabek strode on as a haphazard line of men dashed out to meet him, some of them only half-dressed, all of them clearly caught afoot by the unexpected attack.

Otabek felt his lip curl in disdain. These men had not given his village any warning either.

He dove forward. His sword slammed into flesh, and the red mist swallowed him whole.

=-=-=

When Otabek regained his senses, he discovered that he was in a tent. The chieftain’s tent, he guessed, by the furs and silks which draped its interior. The man himself was sprawled at Otabek’s feet, his body still twitching. The chieftain’s head lay a foot away, sightless eyes still wide with surprise. From his angle, Otabek could just about make out the white glint bone where he had severed the man’s neck.

Otabek swallowed.

Glancing down, he realised that he was carrying an unfamiliar axe, his grip on the handle hard enough to ache. He flexed his fingers reflexively, dropping it. It fell onto the ground with a dull _clunk_. Of Otabek’s own sword, there was no sign.

Otabek sighed and kicked the corpse. The body flopped onto its back. Something glinted on the shoulder of the chieftain’s cloak: a brooch, painfully familiar. Suddenly, Otabek felt his gorge rise.

Briskly, he stooped over the body and unpinned the brooch, palming it. He gave the body a final kick before he left the tent.

The camp outside was quiet, its inhabitants all clearly dead or fled. Otabek gritted his teeth and made himself walk on. He found his sword near the largest of the campfires, embedded in the back of one of the fallen men. He retrieved his sword with a sharp wrench, and wiped its blade on the dead man’s tunic before sheathing it, before moving on.

He carried on walking, out of the camp and through the rocky landscape outside, until he reached his horse, tied more than a mile away. By then, the sun was beginning to rise, the barest hint of burnished gold on the horizon. Otabek untied his horse, allowing it to wander just a little further afield to graze. Then, and only then, did he allow his knees to buckle, his body bowing, until his forehead rested against the cool earth. He was so tired. His side hurt. He –

“You’re bleeding,” said a voice beside him.

Otabek startled. He forced himself to sit up, and winced as the movement tugged at the gash along his side. Yuri was sitting next to him, his face impassive.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Otabek glared at him reproachfully.

Yuri cocked his head. A tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. “But it’s fun to watch you jump like that.”

Otabek huffed. “And you call yourself a god,” he griped as he struggled to his feet.

“But I am a god,” Yuri replied, standing too.

Otabek rolled his eyes. Wordlessly, he made to limp towards his horse, and for the healing kit he kept in the saddlebags, to staunch the bleeding. It would have to do until the next village he came across with a proper healer.

Yuri’s hand caught his wrist. “Wait,” he said, tugging Otabek towards him.

Otabek went willingly.

Yuri’s mouth was soft and hot. Otabek kissed back greedily, because it had been a while, and because Yuri was deliciously pliant in his arms. He gathered Yuri to him, even as he licked in, drinking in Yuri’s hitched whimpers. He was only distantly aware of the growing warmth that bathed the wounded side of his body.

They were both breathing heavily when Yuri finally pushed them apart. “There,” Yuri said, looking satisfied as he ran a palm down the now-smooth skin on Otabek’s side, making Otabek shiver. “Try not to make a habit of it. I can’t bring back the dead.”

Otabek glanced away. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, he became aware that he was still holding on to the brooch. He uncurled his fist slowly. The brooch was still as bright as he remembered. Unbidden, his eyes prickled.

“What’s that?” Yuri asked, his tone light and curious.

Otabek took a shuddering breath. “It was to be my sister’s.” Her bride price, for a wedding that would never take place now. He looked up again, catching Yuri’s eye. “Here,” he said as held the brooch out. “Take it.”

A shadow crossed Yuri’s face. “I have no use for a dead woman’s trinket.”

Otabek shook his head. “Please,” he insisted, “I want you to have it.”

Yuri eyed him wordlessly, his eyes dark and thoughtful. Then, all of a sudden, his expression lightened. “Alright,” he said, biting his lip in a manner which, on any other person, Otabek would have called _shy_. But this was Yuri.

Still, Yuri trembled as much as any maiden whom Otabek had courted before, when Otabek pinned the brooch on his breast. The thought made Otabek smile.

“It suits you,” he said, stepping back.

Yuri’s answering smile was tremulous. “Come,” he whispered, reaching out to lace his fingers with Otabek’s. “Let’s go home.”

=-=-=

Growing up, Otabek had listened to the stories about the god who dwelled in the Great Steppe. He was taught that the god could be as kind as he could be cruel, for the gold was as much the warmth which nourished the village’s herds as he was the storm that raged across the plains. He was told that god could grant anyone their wish, if only the god found them worthy enough.

He never expected that he would find himself living with the god.

(But then, he hadn’t expected that Yuri would grant his wish either.)

During the day, Otabek learned the songs of the earth and the grass and the sky. He learned from Yuri how to coax the wind to come when he called, and how to persuade the animals on the Steppe to do his bidding. He learned the names of Yuri’s eagles, each of them named after one of the great gales that swept through the grassland.

At night, his lessons took a different turn.

The first night Otabek had lain with Yuri was also his first time with a man. Yuri’s hands were clever, his lips and tongue even more so. Otabek had blushed and stammered, right up to the point when Otabek had spilled in Yuri’s mouth.

Now, however, Otabek learned the dips and curves of Yuri’s body, the smooth planes of muscle and the soft, hidden places that made Yuri’s breath hitch every time Otabek brushed his lips across sensitive skin. He learned how to make Yuri flush, cry out, rake his nails down Otabek’s back, fall apart; as vulnerable as any mortal after all.

Afterwards, Yuri would gather him close. He would tell Otabek about the ancient Steppe when it still was young, about the first rain that fell upon the first grass and the first horse that raced the first wind, and Otabek would bury his face into the crook of Yuri’s neck and just _breathe_.

=-=-=

Now and then, Otabek left. The trade caravans that crossed the Steppe always needed guards-for-hire, and Otabek was still human enough, still _him_ enough, that he needed a distraction every now and then.

They fought, the first time that Otabek announced his decision to leave: Yuri certain that Otabek would not be back, and Otabek unable to convince him otherwise. It had stormed that day over the Steppe, all roiling clouds and clapping thunder, the lightning almost blinding, until Otabek declared that he _had enough, alright, just enough_ , and _can’t you see that I love you, you fool_ , before striding away.

Otabek stayed with the caravan for two whole moons. In those two moons, it rained every day over the Steppe, cloaking the plains in a mournful grey. The ground turned soggy, waterlogged, almost marsh. At night, the cold, damp fog crept into Otabek’s sleeping roll, as impossible to ignore as the persistent lover.

The traders in the caravan shivered in their leathers and whispered their superstitious fears. They made offerings every night, in hope that they might placate the god of the Steppe.

Otabek merely shrugged his shoulders and wrapped his cloak more tightly around him.

When he returned after two moons, Otabek found Yuri where they had first met. By then, the rain had turned the area into a lake. Yuri sat along the shore, curled in on himself, still and unmoving. HIs eagles were huddled around him; every now and then, one of them bumped against its master and gave a chirp of distress. They looked up as one when Otabek approached, and scattered.

“Hey,” Otabek murmured, cupping his hand on Yuri’s jaw and urging Yuri to look up. There was a moment of resistance before Yuri complied. His eyelids were red and puffy, and he stared at Otabek blankly.

“Hey,” Otabek whispered again, softer now, as he leaned in to kiss away the furrow on between Yuri’s brows. “I’ll always return to you. You know that, don’t you?”  

The rain softened to a drizzle, then a mist, as the world seemed to hold its breath. Finally, Yuri’s arms came up. They wrapped around Otabek’s back, strong as the trees that grew on the northern reaches of the Steppe, where the ground rose to cloud-kissed peaks.

It was sunny the next day over the Steppe. And if Yuri took to stopping by at night every now and them, each time that Otabek agreed to guard yet another caravan through the Steppe – well, Otabek was hardly one to mind.  

=-=-=

Once in a while, someone sought Yuri’s favour. Otabek watched them as they struggled to keep pace Yuri’s eagles for twenty days and one, just like the stories said they must, and something in his chest tightened with sympathy. Only the foolhardy and desperate ever went so far as to truly try to seek Yuri out. It was something Otabek knew intimately well.

“What did they want?” Otabek would ask, whenever Yuri decided that the supplicant was worthy enough. Or interesting enough. To Yuri, they were sometimes the same thing. The stories were not wrong when they said that gods were capricious.

None of the supplicants ever offered to stay with Yuri. Still, Otabek would hold his breath each time until Yuri replied, the air escaping his lungs in a sigh of relief.

“What did they want?” he asked, after the latest pair of supplicants had departed.

Yuri looked up from the offerings which the supplicants had left. “Safe passage through the Steppe for their village, and a new place for their village to flourish.” His lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “I agreed.”

“Of course you did,” Otabek replied, fiercely and selfishly glad that Yuri was still his alone.

“My eagles would guide them,” Yuri said, standing up and holding the offerings out to Otabek to inspect: a piece of cloth, embroidered with a ransom of precious beads, and –

“A shield?” Otabek asked, taking the second item and hefting it in his hand. “That’s not the usual sort of thing the people offer you.” It was a good shield, he decided, its frame light and sturdy, its leather well-cured. The metal scrollwork around its rim was surprisingly delicate, even beautiful.

Yuri’s smile broadened. “They wanted safe passage through the Steppe,” he repeated.

Otabek’s mouth went dry. “Me?”

Yuri laughed.

=-=-=

“Can you hear everyone’s prayers?” Otabek had asked, once, as they drowsed. Yuri had skilfully taken Otabek apart, while pleas and cries spilled from Otabek’s lips.  

“Hm.” Yuri stirred languidly under Otabek’s arm. “I guess, if I listen hard enough.”

“What about mine?” Otabek asked, half in jest. He walked his fingers playfully down the length of Yuri’s spine, and chuckled when Yuri scrunched his nose in protest.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I always hear you, stupid.” He tipped his head to nip at Otabek’s jaw.

“Good,” Otabek whispered as he rolled them over, ignoring Yuri’s surprised yelp. His hand slipped down Yuri’s belly, and lower yet.

Yuri opened up for him so beautifully.

Beneath him, Yuri arched his brow. “Beka? What are you doing?”

“It’s my turn now,” Otabek declared, leaning down to steal the moan from Yuri’s lips.

=-=-=

In the end, it happened like this: the latest caravan which Otabek had agreed to guard, a visiting god, a campfire in the open night, and the rustle of grass where there should have been none.

Instinctively, Otabek moved, shoving Yuri out of the way. An arrow punched into his chest, the force of the blow knocking Otabek onto his back.

“Yuri,” Otabek gasped. It came out as a wet gurgle.

Suddenly, the world went quiet. The air went heavy, potent, _angry_ , like the buzz of a thousand bees.

Yuri screamed.

Lightning – it had to be lightning, Otabek told himself, nothing could be this bright – flashed, a blinding white that left dark spots dancing across Otabek’s sight.

Then, just as abruptly, everything stilled.

“Idiot,” Yuri said, falling to his knees beside Otabek. “Why did you do that for?”

“I couldn’t let you get hurt,” Otabek said, or at least, tried to. His lips and tongue were proving uncooperative.

“I can’t die, stupid.” Yuri continued, his voice cracking. “I can’t die, but you can.”

Otabek could feel his eyelids going heavy. He struggled to keep them open. _But I didn’t want to see you get hurt_ , he thought stubbornly.

It was no use. Dark spots were spreading over his vision. Otabek struggled to turn his head, to lift his arm towards the direction of the hitching sobs, but his body was unresponsive.

Something pressed against Otabek’s lips. Liquid seeped into his mouth, warm, salty, coppery.

“Drink,” Yuri urged, the tone of his voice frantic even as he continued to cry. “Drink, damn you. Drink.”

Otabek managed a swallow. The liquid burned a line of fire down his throat. Then, the world went black.

=-=-=

It was dark when he awoke. Otabek sat up carefully from where he had been lying on the grass. Something felt different. Was different.

He glanced down. The skin above his heart was smooth.

He blinked and stood up, his feet carrying him automatically to where he already knew he would find Yuri.

Yuri was standing with his back to Otabek as Otabek approached. Yuri’s face was tilted to the horizon, where a storm was gathering. Otabek knew this, for he could feel the storm; could feel the toss and churn of the clouds as they danced overhead and the way air crackled with the promise of lightning, of thunder, of rain, that was his to call if only he knew the right words for it.

“We should find you shelter,” Yuri said as Otabek stepped up beside him. “A storm’s coming.”

The wind whipped around them, howling its agreement.

Smiling, Otabek took Yuri’s hand in his. “Why?” He raised his other hand, and the wind died down into a breeze. “We _own_ the storm.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://erushi.tumblr.com/) & [Twitter](https://twitter.com/erushi). Come say hi!


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